


Their Love Was Bone Dry

by AAnnR



Category: Coco (2017)
Genre: Child Abuse, F/F, F/M, Family, M/M, Romance, Soulmate AU, Trigger Warnings
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-02-09
Updated: 2018-03-17
Packaged: 2019-03-15 19:08:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,435
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13619820
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AAnnR/pseuds/AAnnR
Summary: It’s Mia that finally tells him, when he’s changing in the early morning of his 15th birthday, what the symbols on his collar mean.“Héctor.”Miguel pauses on his way out the door -- drawn in an indescribable way to the words his little prima Mia has whispered from across the room. She’s grown, obviously, since the day she’s met her intended. They're engaged, but they will not marry until she’s sixteen -- which has poor Miguel relieved beyond measure when he’d been told in passing by his mamá  when he inquired.“Mia?” Miguel crosses the room to her bed, skirting around other primos sleeping on the floor, and sitting on the edge to run his hand through her hair. “Go back to sleep.”“Miguel,” Mia whispers. “Your alma gemela. I heard abuelita talking about it the other day to Josè’s mamá.” Miguel goes to shush Mia, but she perserveers. “She said your soulmate’s--” but Miguel hears another of his primos shift and he covers Mia’s mouth before she can say anything else. He doesn't want her to get into trouble the way he often does when he talks about it. So he smiles and whispers to her, “It's fine. Don't worry, Mia.” And she nods and snuggles back down into her blankets.





	1. Sin Alma Gemela

_“I sing a secret song every night we are apart.”_

Héctor _“Remember Me”_

It’s a wet day when Miguel Rivera, tired and aching and moist from unevaporated sweat, finally manages to ask his _mamá_ about the silver words traced along the sharp curve of his collarbone in scratchy, thinly lined shapes. Every member of his family has some, a line of dark black symbols, decorating their bodies like jewelry and weaved in intricate designs across expanses of skin. He loves to look at them -- his _mamá_ ’s lines traces down the curve of her back and Miguel often finds himself staring at them, dark and swooping and perfectly contrasting against her brown, sun-kissed skin.

His _mamá_ , hand braced against the old wooden surface of their kitchen cabinet,  frowns at her son. Her dark eyes -- eyes that, Miguel has by now noticed, are not a family trait with their resemblance to darkly stained wood and their pointed apex -- are rimmed, beneath dipped eyebrows, in a sorrow that has Miguel drowning as if he were out in the rain. He sees the same eyes in his _primos_ and his _tías_ and _tíos_ when their focus zeros in on him. It's familiar yet unsettling in a way that Miguel, in his adolescent state, cannot interpret beyond the uncomfortability that crawls like bugs beneath his skin.

“I’ll tell you when you’re older, Miguel.” And the way she says his name resonates a tone of finality that triggers a chord of reluctant but immediate compliance within him. He drops it and goes back to his chores with a slow efficiency that gets him into trouble later and almost makes Miguel forget the interaction with his mother.

Yet, when Miguel lays with his _primos_ in their little bedroom off the main house that night Miguel returns to the topic, mulling over the origin and meaning behind the marks like he wonders about the faint shapes he sees clouding in the inky blackness of the sky at night, after the lights are off and the moon isn’t full. His fingers trace along the line of symbols in wonderment and asks himself about the lines that glow against his skin brightly, like the stars the twinkle in the night. He can barely see them in the spare light of the bed room he shares his the youngest members of his family, but he’s seen them often enough that he knows the shape by heart and can regard them almost completely in his mind’s eye. There are points and curves and lines and dots -- and Miguel thinks his mark is the most interesting he's seen.

 

~~~

 

“Why can’t I go to school too, _mamá_ ?” Miguel is elbow deep in laundry, squatting on the muddy, sudsy ground and almost completely soaked with water from the basin. Elbows deep in water and working his _abuelita’s_ dress against the washboard, he watches his _primos’_ as they leave the courtyard, their parents, his _tías_ and _tíos_ , seeing them off on their first day of the school year.

His _mamá_ hums, “It’s just not your place, Miguel.” She’s on the porch, a stack of clothes that she’s mending next to her, her legs hanging off the ledge. She doesn’t look up from her work as she says: “Perhaps next year.”

The phrase is noncommittal and Miguel tries to fight off the disappointment that threatens to crawl up his throat as he says “Yes _mamá_ .” The corner of his eyes prick with unshed tears as he watches his _primos_ leave for the day, uniforms pressed and crisp, courtesy of Miguel himself, and radiant. He’d helped his youngest _prima_ , Mia, get ready this morning, braiding her long, black hair and fastening it with a ribbon that they’d found in laying in the _taller_ . It was her first year and Miguel, being three years her senior, was beginning to seriously doubt that his first year was never going to happen. It's emotional to watch and Miguel feels a little more lonely, even though he’s sitting only a few paces from his _mamá_.

He should be used to things like this: being left behind. It was the same last year, and the year before.

And the year before that.

So he wasn’t really _that_ surprised when he hadn’t been called in to try on the uniforms his family communally purchased for the school year.

He doesn’t know why, but Miguel has this sneaking suspicion that it’s because of his _mark_ . But this isn’t confirmed -- everytime he tries to ask his _mamá_ about it, she goes silent and sad and Miguel’s _padre_ has asked him to just stop asking. Obviously Miguel is illiterate and cannot read them for himself, so he relies on his senses and his wit to get through market day and through baking and such. Though, he is the only person in his house that cannot read; even Mia, as previously young as she is, can read the alphabet. And this, of course, has grown a small ball of anxiety for years.

“Miguel,” his _mamá_ calls him from the depths of his thoughts, “we should get started on lunch.” He nods, noting that in his ponderings he’d managed to finish the laundry. They hang the articles of clothing on the line and make their way to the kitchen where Miguel’s _tías_ are already cooking for their husbands’ midday meals. Miguel and his _mamá_ set to work: Miguel, only 10, moves with an efficiency of an individual who is used to cooking, mirrors his mother in washing up and tying on an apron. Then he breaks from her, taking note of the water boiling on the stove and the vegetables his _tía_ Michelle is cutting and quickly determines that more is needed. He pulls a few more from the cupboard and settles next to her to add to her pile.

She glances at him, nodding silently in acceptance, before going back to her conversation with _tía_ Rita. “I can’t believe Mia’s already old enough to go to school.”

“ _Sí_. They grow up so quickly. One day they're underfoot and the next, they're gone.”

“Well,” Miguel sees _t_ _ía_ Rita glance at him and grimace. “Not everyone.”

There’s snickering around the room. Miguel feels his face grow hot but forces himself to focus harder on his task, tightening his grip on the knife. He’s too nervous to speak up for himself -- he's tried, once, but it’d ended with bruises in the shape of shoes and a few long, agonizing days without food.

The peppers are bright green against the dark brown of the countertop. Miguel forces himself to count the seeds as he sees them. He cuts them to match the size of the rest _t_ _ía_ Rita has already cut and quickly moves on to peek in the stove to check on the bread he knows is already in there and pulls it out, finding that it has sufficiently baked to the golden brown standard he’d been taught.

For a moment, he revels in the warm scent of the bread as he sets it on the counter, out of the way of the bustling women to allow it to cool in peace as they dance around the tiny room, performing tasking with an efficiency that mimicked the little town dances that happened in the square during the warmer months of the year. There was a pleasure in cooking Miguel decides as he moves onto stoking the fire that has gotten a bit lower in the baking oven. It was methodical in the way that Miguel likes -- an outlet that gave way to creativity at times when his family allowed him to cook by himself. Sometimes, if given the chance, Miguel would decorate the pastries with flowers or little candies or icing. Or, if it was a particularly hot day, the women would let Miguel prepare the meal all by himself

He breathes, ignoring the continued gossip from around the room in favor of the tasks he knows he must perform. After a while, like with the laundry, Miguel is lulled into daydreaming through his tasks, him body moving on autopilot, assisting his family where he is expected to, dodging them with a dexterity that would have impressed the family if it had been anyone other than Miguel.

Then there’s a loud bang, which startles Miguel from his trace enough to catch the end of an exclamation that floats through the open window that looks out into the courtyard. “--ivera! Rivera!” The end of the family name lilts at the end, a heavy _-uh_ at the conclusion of each exclamation.

He follows his family outside, where they gather in small circle around the newcomers, an adult woman and man, that stand at their gated entrance with Mia holding hands with another little boy and beaming. Miguel is confused, but _t_ _ía_ Rita races forward to grab the little boy about the face and smothers his cheeks with kisses. _Tío_ Santiago’s shaking the other man’s hand and grinning broadly.

Miguel is terribly confused by the interaction unfolding before him and he turns to his _mamá_ , but she’s looking at him and crying and suddenly Miguel feels incredibly heavy, like he hasn’t slept in days.

The party is ushered inside, into the room they normally reserve for special occasions, and Miguel is set to work in the kitchen. His _mamá_ quickly instructs him to cut more green peppers as the rest of the womenfolk pull out some of the more expensive ingredients. Soon, tamales and dips. They go through the rice for mole and such, their seasonings flowing liberally into the foods with such a flare Miguel is sure will spoil some of the food -- but when he tastes it, he is pleasantly surprised with the flavor. It’s rich and _hot_ in all the good ways he likes and he silently wishes all their meals could taste this way.

By the time they finish, the sun begins to dip beyond roof of their fence, the rays glaring little raxeira-ed balls into his retinas. He blinks them away, but they blind for long minutes, making it impossible to see. Instead, he leans against the counter and waits for it to pass.

In the other room, he can hear the rest of his family, laughing and joking. Above the din, his _abuela_ calls for the attention of the family in articulate words. He can hear her voice crackle through the thin walls as she says “We are so proud of our Mia. To have found her soulmate so early in life! Our family welcomes the

Miguel manages to corner Mia when she slips out of the impromptu banquet, grinning and happy and glowing. He supposes she has to use the _baño_ , but Miguel is beyond exasperated and wants answers, so he trails her and waits until she emerges.

When he sees her the words just tumble out, “Who is that, Mia? What’s going on?”

Mia is all smiles, her little cheeks rosy with a youth that Miguel is intensely grateful for when she answers, rolling over her ‘ _l_ ’s with a stumble indicative of a child learning a new word, “Josè? He’s _mi alma gemela_.” Mia lifts her barefoot to flash Miguel the dark writing that is stretched across her ankle like a piece lace, twisting together around her the little appendage. “See? His name is right there: Josè Antonio Martìnez.”

  
Mia returns to the gathering in the main room, leaving Miguel absently stroking the silver lines he knows is there against the light brown of his skin -- stark and bright and obvious and absent of the depth of the dark color his _prima_ ’s mark held.


	2. Realizaciones

_ "I am the one who is willing to do what it takes to seize my moment, whatever it takes.” _

Ernesto de la Cruz

Miguel doesn't know when it happens, but suddenly, one day, he's coming back from running errands, purchasing cloth and ingredients from stalls at his _abuelita’s_ behest, when he sees the paint-stripped husk of a guitar in the trash outside one of the apartment buildings along his shoe shining route. And then he’s suddenly aware that his fingers tingle to touch it, to move along the strings and pull the beautiful music he hears in the _Mariachi_ _Square_ his _abuelita_ hates. Of course, the musicians’ music always calls to him the way the sky calls to birds, but the _Mariachis_ are only a balm to an anxiety that quietly pulses and itches beneath his skin but never completely tempers.

But he leaves it in the pile, knowing the wrath that would incur should his family find the instrument anywhere on the premises of their home. Even though, while he continues with his normal routine, the itch that’s always there swells, tingling along his spine and pressing against the base of his skull. The anticipation mixes with the suppositions of  _ what if _ , his _ alma gemela _ , and the  _ why _ .

~~~~~

It’s the day after he finds the guitar, the same dreadful instance that reoccurs once every year; the day when it’s painfully obvious Miguel will never be normal. It's the day after he consciously chooses to ignore the craving that swirls within him that he finally gets an answer to question he’s been wondering.

It’s in the excitement of his  _ prima _ , Alejandra, when she returns from her first day of her fifth year, a girl and her parents on her heels. And in the look that his  _ mamá _ always gives him that fills Miguel with a weightfullness that makes him aware of every ounce of his being. In that moment he knows -- or perhaps, really, he’s always known --  it’s not  _ him _ that has made him different. It’s the silver that decorates his collarbone in sharp lines. It’s in his dreams that he sometimes wakes from cold and lonely. It’s the origin of that feel that ghosts through him when he sees his  _ mamá _ and  _ papá _ embrace.

It’s his  _ alma gemela _ .

And the truth in his  _ mamá _ ’s eyes fills him with a misery that Miguel is sure is heavier than the entire world. He feels crushed beneath of it all. His bones have never felt so dense, his brain, never so slow, as Miguel realizes that his  _ alma gemela _ is never going to come and his family is never going to celebrate him in the way they have with all of his other  _ primos _ and their unity with their other halves. And he is never going to be allowed to go to school or wear a new, crisp uniform or amble back to the courtyard hand in hand with a cute little... _ someone _ .

All because of the silver on one sliver of skin.

So insignificant, yet too incomprehensibly elevated for a young boy. Yet, Miguel, in the most basic way, understands that it’s because the one thing he  _ cannot _ control that he’s been sequestered from the privileges the rest of society gets to enjoy.

And so, that night, with only the glow of the moon and stars as light that reminds him so strongly of the lines scrawled on his skin, he makes another decision: he goes back to that garbage heap a takes the guitar husk and starts to learn to play because, he knows, that if he’s going to be alone then he’s going to learn how to be happy in his solidarity.

While the loneliness never leaves, the weight of his stressful platitudes do.

~~~~~

The guitar ends up in the attic of his family’s storage shed, hidden in an alcove that is dominated by spiders and beetles and large, dusty boxes. He hangs up a curtain and lines the space with some of the older boxes to buffer the sound of his little fingers fumbling along on the fretboard, plunking out melodies Miguel thinks he remembers. But he can’t be sure, especially when what he manages to recreate sounds nothing like the rolling melodies he often hears over the radio. 

And he only manages to catch parts of songs when Miguel is home, so, of course _Mariachi_ _Square_ and shines the shoes of musicians and asks them questions about restringing a guitar and how to play chords and what to do about finger cramps. They’re all rather amicable, especially after they realize that he’s not actually out to steal something from them. One of the _mariachis_ is nicer than rest and doesn’t take quite as much cajoling to get information out of. The rest barter a free shoe shine for a tip.

He practices in the dead of night, when his family is fast asleep and, eventually, Miguel makes progress. Eventually, a few years later, when Miguel is 14, he can play every song on the tape he'd found in the trash one winter a few years back. He also composes -- of course, he still cannot read or write, so he can't copy down the material, so the songs often change depending on his memory or his mood. His fingers are thankfully dexterous and strong and calloused from his years of laborious chores and errands forced onto him.

And gets he gets better.

~~~~~

It’s Mia that finally tells him, when he’s changing in the early morning of his 15th birthday, what the symbols on his collar mean. 

“Héctor.”

Miguel pauses on his way out the door -- drawn in an indescribable way to the words his little  _ prima _ Mia has whispered from across the room. She’s grown, obviously, since the day she’s met her intended. They’re engaged, but they will not marry until she’s sixteen -- which had poor Miguel relieved beyond measure when he’d been told in passing by his  _ mamá _  when he inquired.

“Mia?” Miguel crosses the room to her bed, skirting around other  _ primos _ sleeping on the floor, and sitting on the edge to run his hand through her hair. “Go back to sleep.”

“Miguel,” Mia whispers. “Your soulmark. I heard  _ abuelita _ talking about it the other day to Josè’s  _ mamá _ .” Miguel goes to shush Mia, but she perserveers. “She said your soulmate’s--” but Miguel hears another of his  _ primos _ shift and he covers Mia’s mouth before she can say anything else. He doesn't want her to get into trouble the way he often does when he talks about it. So he smiles and whispers to her, “It's fine. Don't worry, Mia.” And she nods and snuggles back down into her blankets.

Miguel is suddenly overwhelmingly grateful for the innocence of Mia -- she’s too young to be fully bonded, but she’s still being allowed in on conversations about her that Miguel finds disgusting and shameful. He can’t imagine his little Mia as an adult, nevertheless bonded and taken away from her place in their family. He continues to card his fingers through her hair until she’s asleep, leaving her with a kiss to the forehead and retucking her in.

Besides, knowing just hurts more.

He sets to work on his chores, lighting the fire for breakfast and setting a kettle to boil and throwing corn for the few chicken they had -- but his mind goes back to  _ Héctor _ . His  _ alma gemela _ .  _ His soulmate _ . Miguel feels the soul rending chill that rips through his body, erecting tiny hills at the base of his follicles and making his finger quake in a way that doesn’t dissipate for  _ days _ .

When he lays down that night his heart  _ aches _ .

~~~~~

Miguel is leaving the square, mentally flitting through fingerings of another song he’s been trying to memorize for weeks and just can’t manage to get down (today, he’s managed to get one of the guitarists to show him the bridge, the trickiest bit, and Miguel thinks he has it now), when he sees a woman holding out colorful fliers, her face painted into the hard lines of a skull, and hollering, “ _ Dia de Muertos _ music contest! Everyone is invited to participate!” and Miguel’s heart skips a beat. 

He  _ can _ , if he wants to, dress up and steal away after diner. It wouldn’t be hard -- and he’s perfected stealing away to practice for years now. And if he painted his face...and, maybe, this might be the perfect opportunity to show his family that he was more than just a waste.

So he takes a red flier with a “ _ gracias _ " and a huge smile and folds it, carefully, into fourths and sticks it into the wooden shoe he carries with a leather strap.

~~~~~

He practices hard in the days leading up to  _ Dias de Muertos _ . Every opportunity he holes up in his hiding place to go over the one song he knows will knock everyone’s socks off: Remember Me by Ernesto de la Cruz.


End file.
